So! By the radio I hear our Winnetou has
put an end to himself in Asgard’s rubble; an end that will be received
jubilantly and with many wrong reasonings. Already our Fourth Estate reviles
him as a coward... such is the prerogative of victors as they walk in ignorance
of, or denial in, the Einherjahr. Whereas Winnetou, in his myriad, squirming
minds, was only flinging his soul beyond reach of his enemies, passing not to
the depths but the Azur. Of course the Fuhrer would have loathed captivity -
display as one of those trained apes in Haeckel's zoo would have negated his
Reich, so... Death! As one of those silly Red Indian romances he treasured in
those days when we were young, filled with young thoughts and dangerous dreams.
An epoch one critic called a civilization deluged, leaving only a few tall hats
bobbing upon the waves.

After
the Praemonstrator passed, Frater DEDI... for "Demon (or Daimon?) et Deus
Inversi", something near that, if you will trust an old man's memories...
rededicated his Vision to Vestigia. "Because of a number of young men and
women, you and I among the number (in his draft, later corrected, "you and
one other - with whom I quarreled") met forty years ago in London and
Paris to discuss mystical philosophy." Ezra Pound dismissed our circle
mockingly... "lobster suppers, rats!"... that one now in the dock,
our Sudenbach! The Beast's reply would probably have been vulgar, certainly
purple... but again, has that not always been the royal color, whether
celestial or infernal?

In
age, one's spirit wages war between bitterness and forgetfulness (which in the
rare, saintly disposition blossoms into forgiveness). So my recollection of
times and events may fail, at times, the test of trustworthiness... more in
matters of time than being... but remember, please, these were our Hermetic
days. As I’ve remembered them.

All
weighty affairs have a beginning, so I shall presume the Bonesmen's skull to be
mine, since it was to engender consequences spilling over the last three months
of the last century and into our own. Once upon a time, as tales of gnomes and
fairies go, there was a boy named Cameron... myself... a banker's son, who
played with hoops and ate puddings; who studied Latin and geometry and who
innocently determined to become a scientist (for some of those who came to his
father for funds succeeded in their patents and became wealthy, even
distinguished). But at University, young Arthur fell in with a Brotherhood of
drinkers and carousers who fought now and again with rival Orders until, one
night in October, 1899... inspired by bold talk and hard cider... a wager was
made that he... I... could penetrate the Bonesmen's keep and abscond with their
tabernacle, a skull said to have belonged to the Chief of the Wampanoag
Indians, killed in battle with settlers in the swamps of New Jersey some two
centuries earlier.

I
have always had a faculty for making swift, if not altogether sound decisions,
and the cider's sway quickly dissipated in the cold moonlight of criminal
undertakings. Wrapping a dark cloak about my shoulders, I pulled the Wolf-mask
over my face... for such was the emblem of we, Lupercals... and, though my eyes
were unobstructed, saw my fellows as a predator might.Lambs for the spit... boys! Here was
enterprising for a man!

As
a precursor to the initiation of my adventure, I took the precaution of rubbing
laudanum and certain other sleep-inducing salts into a ball of ground meat and
slinging a length of hooked rope over my shoulder. Before he grew too important
to do so, my father used to take me climbing those rocks found in the upper
reaches of New York State, even those of New Hampshire; I had acquired a
dexterity of footwork which, I trusted, should suffice to scale, then penetrate
the Bonesmen's keep and seize their tabernacle. A tall hat, to draw attention
away from the mask, and knuckles for any unfortunate insomniac lurking about -
such were my preparations. The boys drank more cider, wished me well... I do
not think they expected me to return and, in a manner of speaking, I never
have.

The
Ossuary was worthy opposition I attacked deliberately and by stages. It was...
and remains... entirely enclosed by a brick wall nearly the height of three men
and, at such late hour, attendance could be gained only through a gate manned
by a keeper from town and his dogs. I probably could have overpowered the
fellow, being stronger in those days and a pupil of Gemmy Maires (who'd trained
boxers including, for a time, a competent challenger to the heavyweight
champion, Gentleman Jim Corbett). But among the Lupercalians I had advertised
my intellectual prowess, not mere brute force... so instead had gone round to
the back of the wall which fronted a sort of meadow where several fine old oaks
coexisted uneasily with several more rather horrid imitations of Greek and
Roman statuary; hurling my apparatus upward until the hook caught hold on the
third attempt I was able to pull myself up hand over hand... perhaps not so
rapidly nor aesthetically as the Beast approached his Andes or Himalayas, but
sufficient to reach a ledge with perhaps eighteen inches' depth and access to
an open window visible across a crenelated roof.

And
beneath... the dogs!

We
Wolves knew the Bonesmen kept a pair of them about; large, ill-tempered
Alsatians, and I confess what apprehension I had that evening was mainly
influenced by their location and probable disposition. So, having made my way
to the window, I lingered, waiting for their approach and hoping that their
training still favored attack, engagement and dismemberment over giving vocal
warnings.

By
and by the hounds came sniffing round... together as I'd hoped... I leaned
through the window and tossed the pair their snack, then waited for nature to
take its course. What I'd given them was candy compared to Bennett's potion
that Stoker, the English writer deceased now thirty years... forty?...
delivered me from, but I swear I heard one give a sort of yawn, their legs
swayed and the dogs lay down, shook their heads, snuffled a bit, then slept.

I
found myself upon a sort of landing I remembered from two years ago, when I'd
been taken through the Ossuary during one of that sort of feeling-out pledges
are given... whether the Bonesmen first decided I was not their sort or I gave
notice quite escapes me... I am pretty good with most details of that era but
not all, as I believe I have explained (and my children never cease reminding
me). At any rate, I had a row of rooms to pass before the stairway but,
fortunately, there were no midnight toilers and the lock on the Temple door was
perfunctory - easily picked.

And
there... in its glass case... the Wampanoag skull!

It
was there, also, that I first encountered Vartanian light; the blue of
Boleskine married to deep and bloody crimson ichor, trapped and roiling in
glass cylinders... an almost liquid constituency. These cylinders hung from
wires in queer shapes... straight lines and circles, some, but also oozing
polyhedrons that pulsed as vessels containing an unhealthy blood.I recall thinking of the Curies, but only a
moment - glass was forced and Wampanoag's skull retrieved.

From
the folds of the cloak I drew my substitute... another skull, but smaller and
of different origin; one that might not draw attention under careless scrutiny
until the High Ossuary Revels in a fortnight. Such was my modest ambition. Of
course it all would come to ruin, and I have only my own carelessness to
blame... but without such carelessness I would have never traveled to London
and Paris and Germany, never have achieved Zelatorship, made love to Sapienta
nor escaped the wrath of Winnetou and his teachers... I probably would never
even have learned of the Golden Dawn!

I
have Viereck to thank. He'd brought back a girl from town to the Ossuary and
had evidently been dozing while I'd approached the Temple - anyway he'd
recovered and as they were about their business the door slid open. Charlie
Viereck… well, he never gave a damn for what others thought of him, I'll grant
him that, a quality one may look at as a virtue or failing. We could have been
brothers, almost, but ended up mortal enemies, even well after Boleskine once
he and Crowley went into business publishing scurrilous papers which Aleister,
now, claims was a plot to misdirect the German Templars and Viereck counters
was his plot to entrap the Beast! Anyway, Viereck's back was towards me... the
rump portion of it, rather... I recollect he'd neglected to remove his socks.
He never did see me... then... but his dolly did, and set to screamings that
would certainly have been the downfall of Jack the Ripper had it been London
rather than a quiet campus in New Jersey wherein she'd chosen to ply her trade.

What
could I do but tip my hat as any gentleman... the mask, I might add, was of
superb quality one doesn't find these days... limned in fur but from a rather
less formidable creature than a wolf. Raccoon perhaps... I believe the smile
that I flashed permitted quite a glimpse of its ivory fangs. Viereck did not
turn round... whether he feared what he'd see or was deluded by masculine
vanity is something I've never come round to asking... but I heard a door open
and a shout down the hall was answered by others which seemed to originate from
the glade outside. Abandoning my intent to escape through the window, I hurried
instead down the steps to the parlor, then out the front door.

The
watchman was just beginning to stir as I fled across the Keep, it had been
perhaps ten minutes and the conjugal sounds had roused him, or maybe he'd just
wondered what had happened to his Alsatians. I'd slipped the knuckles over my
gloved fist and caught him as he reached for my cloak; he fell backwards over
his chair and I let myself out.

The
way to the highway and escape was peppered with lights; approaching lanterns...
and I'd run back round the Keep, meaning to lose any pursuers in the forest
which abutted a small plain. Beyond were other University buildings, including
the sanctuary of Wolf Hall which I could have achieved with a minimal effort.
Instead I encountered a distraction... two men locked in mortal struggle within
the bowers of the largest tree!

A
rope had been looped round the neck of one and as I approached, Bonesmen with lanterns
in pursuit behind, the unfortunate fellow was pushed from his perch, landing...
or dangling, rather... no more than a yard from my nose with his heels but six
inches from the ground. Six fatal inches! I clearly heard the horrible snap of
spine and blood gouted from his mouth and nose and ears. The murderer leaped
and tumbled across the grass but rose catlike; as I thought to close upon him,
he raised a dagger against the moon and shook it towards me. Here we stood -
two forces that might have regarded one another from within and without an
occult mirror black as that of Chancery Lane... the assassin was cloaked and
masked also, but with black gauze that gave his head the aspect of a great,
dark insect... one of those larger cockroaches one sees in Southern states.

He
raised his knife!

We
measured one another on that plain of banal statuary... under badly cast stone
eyes of David and a neutered Apollo, fauns and centaurs, bronzed heroes atop
big-assed steeds... and the approaching Bonesmen and police called out
"Stop! Stay where you are!"

The
assassin lunged and I parried but lost my footing... he raised his dagger
(which, in what I thought was certainly my last moment on earth, was covered
with occult inscriptions). I rolled - the knife came down, buried to the hilt
in the soil at the dead man's feet.

I
heard a rifle's bark which, by the numerous lights, would soon become a
volley... the assassin had fled into the wood but I would have no such chance,
I did that which I had to do then sought to discern if anything could be done
for the hanged man who, however, proved quite dead.

"Get
away from there and keep your hands up!" said a policeman behind one of
the lanterns.

"The
fellow whom you want has gone into that wood!" I pointed but without
succor.

"We
have you and you'll lead us to him by and by!" another predicted and,
rather than risk a fatal misunderstanding, I rose my hands and was
surrounded... the worst of it, however, being that one of those following the
law was Viereck, a robe now thrown over his thick haunches.

"Let's
have a look at you!" said the one who was Sergeant of the police, and the
wolf-mask was torn off my face with such vehemence that it ripped nearly in
twain. I never have found an equal to it and now... what would be the point?

"That's
him!" Viereck volunteered. "There's your murderer - it's Cameron,
he's a Wolf.A thief! He swiped the
Wampanoag Skull and replaced it with a monkey's... then did murder to cover up
his crime. Arrest him!"

And
the Bonesman shoved his snubby snout towards my chin, the better to spray me
with spittle... which was a trait of Viereck, when agitated... he had failed,
himself, to see that the town girl had followed him out and, so, had attracted
the attention of the police.

"You'll
hang yourself... Wolf!... if it were up to me I'd rather see you strapped in a
chair like they do over the ocean, in Europe, and slain with polyphasic
current! Now... where is our Skull?

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